Done With You
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Cuddy worries about House after Kutner's death.


Done With You

**This one is based off a prompt from my spirit animal, survivachick: What if Cuddy comforted House after Kutner's death? I like the idea that this is the beginning of Cuddy fixing everything and maybe House won't need to go to Mayfield, after all. **

"I'm worried about House," Cuddy said. She had tracked Wilson down to the vending machine, where he was currently rifling through his pockets for spare change.

"Then it must a day of the week ending with day," he cracked, staring at the coins in his palm in his dismay. "Do you have 15 cents?"

Cuddy opened her purse, impatiently handed him the coins.

"I'm serious," she said.

"I know you are," Wilson said. He put the coins in the slot, pressed the button for a granola bar and waited for it to fall down the shoot. "Look, House is upset about Kutner. We all are. But he'll be fine."

"I think he's more upset than he's letting on," Cuddy said.

"Or. . .he's less upset than you want him to be. You always did have a way of romanticizing House."

"I'm not romanticizing anyone," Cuddy said. "He keeps his feelings in tight—too tight. I'm afraid he's going to …combust."

"He liked Kutner, as much as House _can_ like one of his fellows, but it's not like they were best friends. Frankly, I'm more worried about Taub."

"It's not just the fact Kutner died. It's the fact that House didn't see it coming. You know how that sort of thing eats him up inside."

Wilson took a bite of the granola bar.

"He's a big boy. He'll get over it."

"And with his father dying in March. And the whole thing with. . ."

"Amber?" Wilson said, annoyed.

"Yes," Cuddy said, gently.

"Amber's death didn't happen to House. It happened to Amber. And to a lesser extent, to me."

"And his grief over that in no way compares to yours. I'm not saying that it did. I'm just saying that it's a lot for him to take. And the more he broods, the less he talks about it, the worse he will be."

"Then he should talk about it."

Cuddy folded her arms, studied him.

"You're still mad at him, aren't you?"

"I'm not mad at him. But he's a grown man. If he asks me for help, for a shoulder to cry on, even for a night out at the Monster Truck Rally—I'll be there for him. One thing I won't do is lurk around the hallways of the hospital inventing narratives about his psyche that or may not be true."

Cuddy sighed. She could see that he was still resentful of House—or at least of the fact that people spent so much of their own psychic energy worrying about him. And, in that moment, she realized Wilson wasn't going to be any help to her.

"I understand," she said.

#####

At the end of the day, she made her way to House's office. He was sitting, alone, clearly deep in thought.

"Hey," she said.

He looked up, blinked at her.

"What's up?" he said.

"You busy? Wanna go grab dinner?"

"Because you're hungry? Or because you want me to share my deepest, darkest pain over Kutner?"

"Both?" she admitted.

"I'll pass."

"House, we don't have to talk about him. I just don't think you should be alone right now."

"I told you, I'm fine. I'm sorry that Kutner was an idiot and offed himself. But life is for the living. Ergo, Kutner no longer applies."

"I know you're feeling more than that."

He looked at her. "You have no idea what I'm feeling."

She walked up to him, squeezed his shoulder: "You've been through a lot lately," she said gently.

He shot an accusatory look at her hand, which she withdrew.

"I assume you are referring to my father," he said.

"And Amber."

"I hated my father. I'm glad he's dead. As for Amber, isn't Wilson the one you should be smothering right now?"

"House, not all pain needs to beared alone."

"Did you read that on a fortune cookie someplace?"

"I'm just saying—a person can get used to pain. Think it's somehow . . normal."

"For me, it is," he said, his eyes flashing a bit.

"I know, House. Physical pain is one thing. Emotional pain can be helped, by taking comfort in a friend."

He raised his eyebrows obnoxiously.

"What kind of comfort?"

She rolled her eyes.

"The kind where both parties keep their clothing on."

"Oh," he said, with a shrug. "Quel dommage."

"Okay," she said, noddling. "I get it. I'll leave you alone."

"You're really good at picking up on social cues, Cuddy!" he said, with false cheer.

She shook her head and left.

######

Two days later, Foreman showed up in her office.

"You've got to do something about House," he said. "He's out of control."

She looked up from her paperwork and gave a heavy sigh.

"What did he do now?"

"He just made an entire family cry. All at the same time. I'm pretty sure he beat his own record."

"House has made patients cry before."

"Usually when he makes patients cry it's serving some greater good. This was just mean."

"What happened?" she asked, not totally sure she wanted to know.

"You know Lizzie McIntosh, that diabetic teenager, with the spiking glucose rates? Turns out she was stealing her mommy's muscle relaxers which were wreaking havoc on her bloodsugar levels. House reamed the kid out, then the mother out, then the father. He kept saying, 'Do you all just want stand around and watch your daughter die? Is that what you want?' It was obvious that he was. . ."

"Talking about Kutner's parents," Cuddy finished.

"Yeah."

"And possibly himself."

"Exactly."

"I'll talk to him," she said.

"Thanks," Foreman said.

She kept meaning to talk to House, but was sort of dreading it, too. After all, her last attempt to have a heart-to-heart with him hadn't exactly gone swimmingly.

She had almost convinced herself that he was okay, more or less back to normal, when she got a call from security.

"Two of your doctors are having a fist fight in the cafeteria!"

"What?" she said. "I'll be right there."

She raced down the hall. But before she got there, she already knew it was House. Indeed, when she arrived, he and Dr. Katz were being pulled off each other. House was being held back by Foreman and Wilson. Katz was being held back by a few of his buddies.

House had a cracked lip and a pretty nasty cut over his eye. Katz had a swollen eye and a bloody nose. Cuddy prayed that the nose wasn't broken.

"He's a maniac," Katz said thickly, to Cuddy. A friend of his, another doctor, was holding a tissue against his nose, applying pressure. "You need to fire him."

"I'd rather be a maniac than a raging asshole," House seethed. A trickle of blood dripped from his eyebrow and down his cheek. He ignored it.

"I'll need written statements from both of you," Cuddy said. "In the meantime, you both need medical attention."

"Somebody call 911!" House joked.

"Hilarious House," she said. "You're coming with me."

#####

"So what happened?" she said.

House had hopped up on an exam table and taken off his rather bloodied blue oxford. He was just wearing a white tee-shirt now. His legs were dangling off he end of the exam table, but so long, they nearly touched the floor.

Cuddy applied antibiotic ointment to his cut.

"Ouch," he said.

"This is going to need stitches," she said, inspecting it.

"I'd rather a real doctor did those," he said.

"Shut up, I am a real doctor. What happened?"

"He insulted the cafeteria food. On your behalf, I took offense."

"House, what really happened?" She had numbed his wound and was applying the first stitch. He flinched a bit.

"Don't squirm," she said.

"It was nothing," House said. "He was running his mouth."

"About what?"

"About Kutner."

She stopped sewing for a second. "What did he say?"

"He said—and I quote—'I always knew Kutner had a death wish. I just didn't realize it was a literal one.'"

"That asshole!"

"I know." House shrugged. "So that's why I decked him."

"You don't get deck people just because they say things that are insensitive."

"You ought to try it some time," House countered. "It feels good."

"I also heard about the McIntosh family. That you made them all cry."

"Pretty impressive, huh? It was like bowling a strike."

"Not funny House. You're acting out. I wonder why?"

House rolled his eyes and she swatted him, to remind him to keep still.

"You think I'm expressing my anger in inappropriate ways."

"At least you admit you're angry."

"I didn't say that. I said that _you _think I'm angry."

"Actually House. I think you're sad. I think you're very, very sad."

She finished the stitches and put a bandage over his eye.

"Look House. It doesn't have to be me. It can be Wilson. It can be a professional. Just talk to someone—for your sake and the hospital's sake."

"A professional. Now you're talking," House said, hopping down.

"I don't mean a hooker," she said.

"Oh, and here I thought we were finally on the same page."

"House, I'm serious. You're going to cost this hospital a law suit—if you haven't already. You need help."

"Or what?" he said, cockily.

"Or . . . I'm cutting off your Vicodin supply," she said. This hadn't been her plan all along, it just kind of slipped out.

He glared at her.

"You're joking," he said.

"No, House. I'm dead serious."

"I just got three stitches! You think _now_ is a good time to cut off my Vicodin supply?"

"I wouldn't prescribe Vicodin for that even if you weren't an addict. Take three aspirin."

He shook his head.

"You're so desperate to spend some quality alone time with me, you're blackmailing me?"

"House, like I said, it doesn't have to be me. Talk to Wilson. Talk to Taub. Talk to _anybody._ But deal with your grief. I can't have you punching anymore surgeons."

"I'll just get my Vicodin from Wilson. Or if you two hens conspire against me, from somebody else."

"I'm instructing your team—and Wilson—that if they give you Vicodin, they're suspended."

He gaped at her.

"You're serious about this?"

"Yes."

"This is bullshit," he said, storming out.

"It's called tough love, House. Look it up."

#####

He held out for three days (exactly as long as his backup supply of Vicodin lasted), then showed up to her house in the evening.

"It's all my fault," he said, sadly, when she opened the door. His eyes were already glassy and he seemed restless, as the early signs of detox were beginning to take root. "Kutner's dead because of me. Amber's dead because of me. My father's dead—and the bastard never once told me he loved me. It hurts, Cuddy. A lot."

She felt a wave of relief wash over her that he was opening up to her. _Finally_.

"I know," she said softly, ushering him in. "But it's not your fault."

"Sometimes, I think about doing it, too."

"Doing what?" she said, anxiously.

"Taking the easy way out," he said. "Offing myself, like Kutner did. Then I'd never have to be hurt or hurt anyone ever again."

She was aghast.

"House, don't ever say that! Promise me you'll never say that again."

"Okay," he said mournfully. "Opening up to you like this, I feel better already. It's good to finally get all this stuff off my chest."

"I'm here for you House. You know that. Any time."

He walked to up to her and held out his arms, waiting for a hug. Cuddy held him tightly—felt his shoulders shaking through her embrace. She couldn't remember ever seeing House cry.

"It's okay," she kept saying. "You're going to be okay."

But when they parted, he wasn't crying, but laughing.

"Is that what you wanted to hear?" he said, wickedly. His posture had changed, from sad to mildly contemptuous. "Can I _please_ have my Vicodin now?"

She was shaking with anger.

"You motherfucker," she said.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," he said. Then, still laughing, he said, "You should've seen the look on your face, Cuddy: 'My master plan worked! He's _saved_!'"

"Here," Cuddy said, rushing to her end table and pulling out a prescription pad. She filled out a Vicodin prescription and quickly signed her name.

Then she filled out another one. "Take two." Then, she hurled the pad at him—hard. "Take the whole fucking pad."

He caught it, still laughing a bit.

"Calm down, tiger," he said.

"Get out."

"Awww, don't leave mad. . . " he said, then cracked: "Oh wait I'm the one leaving."

When she didn't respond, he gave a sheepish smile. "Seriously Cuddy. I was just kidding around. Don't take everything so seriously."

"You think raising the specter of you _killing yourself_ is something to joke about?"

"When you put it that way. . ."

"House, go."

"I'm sorry," he said, sincerely.

She folded her arms, said nothing.

"Seriously. I'd love to stay and tell you how much," he said, "but I've got a prescription to fill."

#####

The next day, he went to her office and stood in front of her desk. When she didn't look up, he theatrically cleared his throat. Then he did it again.

"I'm busy," she said.

"Cuddy, I was an ass last night. You know I'm not my best self when I'm jonesing. But that's no excuse. What I did was wrong. . .and I'm sorry."

She still didn't look up.

"So now you're not talking to me? Real mature Cuddy!" (He said that last bit in the adenoidal voice of a teenage boy.)

She continued to ignore him.

"Are you actually going to make a cripple get down on his knees and beg? Because I think that might actually be a violation of the Hippocratic oath."

"Leave me alone, House," she said, not even slightly amused. "I'm done."

He eyed her.

"You'll never be done with me and we both know it," he said—and left.

But when he saw her later in the cafeteria, she picked up her tray and immediately walked away. And the next day, when he asked for a liver biopsy for his current patient, she gave a curt: "Do what you think is best" and went back to ignoring him.

Then, as he tended to do in such moments, he doubled down on the obnoxiousness—coming into her office with a bullhorn to get her attention, paging "Dr. Partypants" over the intercom, starting a Jell-O fight with the candy stripers in the cafeteria—none of which she sufficiently reacted to.

Then, three nights after he had shown up at her house pretending to bare his soul, her phone rang in the middle of the night. She fumbled for the receiver in the dark, and answered.

"Lisa Cuddy?"

"Yes," she said, sitting up, alarmed.

"Sorry to bother you so late at night. I'm calling from Sullivan's bar. Your friend House is here and he's way too inebriated to drive—or do much of anything. He said you might be able to come get him."

_Fuck_.

On the one hand, she was still furious at him for his little performance the other night. On the other hand, she couldn't exactly leave him to fend for himself.

"I'll be right there," she sighed.

She slid into a pair of running shoes and put an overcoat over her pajamas and drove to Sullivan's.

The bar was almost empty—it was nearly 1:30—and House was slumped against the bar, an untouched mug of coffee resting in front of him.

When he saw Cuddy, his eyes widened.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he said.

"You told the bartender to call me!" she said.

The bartender gave her a knowing look. "I told you he was wasted."

"Come on, House. Let's go," she said impatiently, tugging at his coat sleeve.

"Stay," he said sloppily. "Have a drink with me."

"Are you kidding? Let's go."

He shrugged heavily, got up, and dutifully began to follow her out of the bar.

"Don't forget this," the bartender yelled after him. His cane.

####

In the car, he let out a little private giggle.

"What's so damn funny?" Cuddy said, annoyed.

"I told you you'd never be done with me," he said, triumphantly.

She gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

"Is that what this was about? You gave yourself the blood alcohol level of 10 frat boys to prove that I'd come pick you up?"

"Worked, didn't it?" he said.

"You're impossible."

She drove him home, walked up him up to his apartment, made sure he actually got inside, then turned to leave.

"Wait!" he said, frantically. "Where are you going?"

"Home, House. It's 2 am. You got me out of bed in the middle of the night. It's a work night. I'm exhausted."

"But I. . .don't want to be alone."

"A pity."

"I get it," he said, before she got to the door.

"Get what?" she said.

"The last person who gave me a ride home from a bar ended up dead. I'm a risky proposition."

She looked at him to see if he was messing with her again. But he was way too drunk to be that calculated.

"House. . ." she said.

He slid to the floor, his back up against the entranceway wall.

"Everything I touch turns to shit," he said.

She closed her eyes. Sighed.

"That's not true," she said, sliding onto the floor next to him.

"Amber would still be alive if it weren't for me," he said. "That's a fact."

"You did the responsible thing, House. You called a friend to give you a ride home. There is nothing wrong with that."

"I left my cane in the bar," he said. "Just like tonight. I'm forgetful when I'm drunk. That's why she followed me onto the bus. That's why she's dead."

"No, she's dead because sometimes horrible things happen and it's nobody's fault. You know that's true."

"I should've known," House said wearily.

"You had no way of knowing that the bus was going to crash!"

"No," he said. He was still drunk, scattered. "I'm talking about Kutner. I should've known. I should've seen the signs."

"There were no signs. He seemed…happy go lucky."

"It must've been there. The . . .sadness. The pain. Just below the surface. I just chose to ignore it because I was too wrapped up in my own damn pain."

"House," she said, taking his hand. This time, he didn't pull away. "There were lots of people who were much closer to Kutner who didn't see anything. Didn't _do_ anything. You can't blame yourself."

"But they're not me, are they?"

So that was it. The flipside of House's God complex. Thinking all bad things were his fault, too.

"House, you see a lot of things that other people don't see. But you don't see everything. You're only human."

"He's still mad at me, you know," House mumbled.

She furrowed her brow: "_Kutner_?"

"Wilson," he said. "He still blames me. I know we made up and I know we're friends again. But a part of him will always blame me . . ."

"Give him time," Cuddy said.

"And then I. . .thought I lost you, too," he said, turning toward her. "All because I'm the biggest flaming asshole on the planet."

"You didn't lose me, House," she said. "You're right, I'll never be done with you."

"I'll never be done with you either," he said, looking at her.

And he cupped her face in his hands and gave her a kiss. It was a surprisingly sensual kiss considering his inebriated state. And it aroused her, too, also a surprise.

It was only a few months earlier that they had shared a passionate kiss after she lost Joy. House had done the gallant thing that night—walking away. And she would do the same thing now.

So she kissed him back, just for a few seconds, because the feel of his mouth and tongue and skin against hers was almost irresistible—and then, before either of them got too excited, she pulled away.

"Not tonight," she said.

"But not never?" he said, hopefully.

"Never say never," she said, with a tiny smile.

And, unexpectedly, he took her hand and brought it to his mouth—perhaps the single most tender thing he had ever done.

"It's 3 a.m.," he said finally, using his cane as an anchor to raise himself from the floor. "You should probably go home."

"At this point, we may as well pull an all-nighter," she said, standing up, too. "We can. . .talk more. About anything. Monster Trucks if you like."

He looked at her, adoringly.

"Coffee?" he said.

"That sounds great."

THE END


End file.
